


13x05 Coda

by sconesandtextingandmurder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s13e05 Advanced Thanatology, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, coda fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12703593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconesandtextingandmurder/pseuds/sconesandtextingandmurder
Summary: Driving feels right and wrong all at once. The seat molds to his body, the steering wheel as familiar in his hands as ever. Sam is there beside  him, exactly where he should be, but Dean takes only a fragment of comfort from it all. He’s so tired. Tired of driving. Tired of fighting. Tired of trying. The weight in his chest crushes him, leaving him heavy and numb and unable to manage a full breath. He feels like he’s swimming through dark water, the surface nowhere in sight.





	13x05 Coda

Dean gets back into the car before they bring out the body. It’s hard enough with the mom standing there, grief radiating from her in nearly palpable waves. He’d thought he could connect with the kid, letting him know that he believed the truth in what he’d seen, but maybe he pushed too hard too soon.

He should’ve proceeded more slowly, not just barged in using his real name and confirming that monsters are real, confirming the way they will continue to haunt him, both asleep and awake. He knows better, knows these things take a delicate hand, a building of rapport, but Jesus, he’s so tired. He doesn’t have it in him right now to do more than try to force out answers. Scaring kids who are already terrified so he can go get his kill on. So now there are two more dead kids to add to his tally. He’s done nothing. He’s done too much.

Driving feels right and wrong all at once. The seat molds to his body, the steering wheel as familiar in his hands as ever. Sam is there beside  him, exactly where he should be, but Dean takes only a fragment of comfort from it all. He’s so tired. Tired of driving. Tired of fighting. Tired of trying. The weight in his chest crushes him, leaving him heavy and numb and unable to manage a full breath. He feels like he’s swimming through dark water, the surface nowhere in sight.

He thinks back to Billie, how she could see right through him. She knew he should’ve been desperate, making whatever deal he could to get back to Sam. But the part of him that wanted to was buried too deeply under his exhaustion.

He knows death doesn’t mean forever in that warehouse where Billie had taken him, but there was something soothing about standing there in that neat, clean, brightly lit space. He’s so tired of loose edges and possibilities. His life is one big mess of trying and failing and trying only to fail again. Never one straight line from beginning to end, always circles and tunnels and uphill battles. The thought of unfinished business exhausts him.

He told Sam the truth and, while it may have shocked him, he could see that softness in his eyes, the way he looked at Dean like he was proud of him for being honest about his feelings. Dean was honest all right, but not for the reason Sam thinks. He couldn’t summon the energy to lie, to make up even the vaguest of stories to tell Sam.

He’s fought his way back, time and again. He _could_ do it. He could wait it out, numbing his brain and his body until the mere act of getting up each day didn’t seem to sap his poor excuse for a soul. He could let his brother drag him along, taking him on hunts, doing his best to placate him in whatever way he thinks might help. He _could_ , but he doesn’t want to.

What’s the point of continuing on? The more he tries to help, the more he fucks things up. His mom is lost to him again and Cas—

He grips the wheel a little tighter. He’d burned Cas’s body himself. It was the right thing to do, but he can’t pretend there’s any coming back from that. Not for Cas and, apparently, not for himself either. The night had been cold and he’d actually taken a step closer to the pyre, to warm himself on the flames consuming his friend. That’s what kind of a sick person he is. He’s sick of himself. Sick of the destruction he leaves in his wake no matter his intentions.

At night he’s so tired, but he lies awake for hours while his body aches and his brain spins, replaying every moment of his shame and cowardice. He can barely look at himself in the mirror. He’s squandered the one chance he had, always waiting for a time that never came. He’d left Cas to die without gracing him with the truth.

There’s no starting again. He’d told Sam he needed a win, but what he really needs is an end. He craves sharp lines and clean edges. No more messy attempts at life. No more unfinished business.

It would be so easy. The center line blurs as he speeds down the rain-slicked highway. One quick jerk of the wheel and the rest would be taken out of his hands. But Sam is here, forced into babysitting him, trying so valiantly to save him from himself. He runs a hand along the smooth leather of the Impala’s steering wheel. Maybe he could take out Cas’s old car. Maybe it still smells like him. Maybe he could say there what he couldn’t say when it still mattered.

The thought gives him a flutter of unexpected relief. They’ll be back at the bunker before long.

It’s a good plan, one he can manage. He’ll leave a note for Sam, tuck it away someplace where it’ll take him a couple of days to find it. He’ll make it as easy as he can on his brother, no need to continue to burden him even after his death. Sam can focus his energies on Jack, on finding the good in people and in life. It’ll be easier without Dean dragging them both down.

All those books on the shelves that Billie had shown him. Maybe none of them took because he needed to mean it.

He’s just so tired.

Dean glances at Sam sleeping in the passenger seat and swallows around the lump in his throat, his breath coming even more shallowly.  His phone rings and he grabs at it to keep from waking his brother. The least he can do is give Sam a chance to rest. The number isn’t familiar, but that doesn’t mean anything and he answers it.

“Hello, Dean.”

He pulls off the road, startling Sam awake with the sudden swerve. Dean thrusts the phone at him, unable to speak. It can’t be.

But Sam is smiling and repeating a location. “We’ll be there soon,” he assures him. “We’re driving now,” he adds when Dean won’t take the phone, both hands locked on the wheel as he merges back into traffic.

“How can it be?” Dean demands.

Sam shrugs. “How did you get sent back? How do any of us? It happens.”

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” Dean clenches his jaw, every muscle tightening against the possibility of hope. “I can’t…” He doesn’t even know what he can’t do. He can’t let himself believe. He can’t go through losing him again.

“When we get there, I’ll do it,” Sam says gently. He gives Dean that look, like Sam is the older brother. Dean hates that look.

They drive the rest of the way in silence, Dean occasionally letting out a huff of breath when the speedometer starts to edge into the danger zone. They drive and they drive and Dean’s heart pounds with a warning beat. _Don’t hope don’t hope don’t hope._  

He means to stay in the car when they get there, as if the glass of the windshield will keep him hidden from view, but he finds himself scrambling out of the car, drifting toward him. Cas stares at him, standing in the overhead glow of the streetlight, a little rough around the edges. He stares at Dean with what might have been tears in his eyes, but Dean hangs back by the Impala, fingertips anchored to the hood as Sam warily approaches him.

Cas looks between the two of them in confusion before his face relaxes into understanding, and he seems to shrink back a little as if to make himself less threatening. Calmly, but with his eyes still on Dean, he submits to the tests Sam administers, the holy water and the silver blade. When he’s through, Sam hugs him tightly, nearly lifting Cas off his feet. He smiles at Dean over Cas’s shoulder before releasing him.

Dean feels himself moving, propelled forward as he tries to figure out what to say. Cas is moving, too, closing the distance between them until he’s there, real and alive and in his arms. Dean holds him until his knees stop shaking and, hands still clutching Cas’s shoulders, he tries to find his voice.

“Cas, I—“ he begins.

Dean feels the warmth of Cas’s mouth brush over a spot just below his ear before he says, “I know, Dean.”

When Cas kisses him, Dean feels something in his chest loosen. With Cas’s palm warm against his cheek, Dean finds the weight he’s been carrying has shifted and contorted, compressed into something he can breathe around.


End file.
